


crackaholics anonymous

by vomara



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Collaboration, Crack, Gen, Out of Character, Sexual Humor, some seriously weird jokes, this fic... is worth your time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vomara/pseuds/vomara
Summary: "It should be recorded that on this holy day of the Lord, Walter White tried his own product and was instantly sent to the depths of Hell."- legitimate quote from "Dante's Inferno""Jesse Pinkman is such a himbo! God, he gives me a lady boner! Also an eighth is sixty bucks, I only take debit card."- chick underneath the Hollywood sign at 3 AM selling oregano in weed baggies"There's a super sale going on at the local grocery store where you can buy twenty packs of cracked eggs for under two dollars."- my neighbor, who makes a killer omelet





	crackaholics anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> the discord server decided to make a google doc collab fic. this is the result.
> 
> not really beta read so expect to see some weird tenses here and there.

Today was the day. Today, Jesse Pinkman went to the lab and suited up in his sexy hazmat lingerie. It was like assless chaps, but a hazmat suit. He brushed his beach blonde hair out of his eyes with his sweaty palms. Fixing the straps on his yellow harness, he felt ready to hit up the local strip club. But he wasn’t in the club. He was in a meth lab.

Mr. White (otherwise known as “Walt”, “Walter”, or “Walter White” when he’s been a bad, bad boy) walks into the lab, already suited up into his harness. Walt’s harness looks less like a stripper harness and more like a baby carrying one. Walt’s got his fly swatter taped where his penis should be. That’s fine. Don’t panic. That’s normal.

Anyway, Jesse flipped his hair, and turned his very sexy, dreamy blue eyes towards Walt. Very blue. They looked like crystal meth, but like, bluer. “Hey, Mr. White. How much meth are we making today?”

“Only enough so that my wife and children can snort it. I must provide for the family.” Walter knocks over a container of red phosphorus onto the table and inhales it in one go.

"Tight," Jesse replies, not really listening as he practices his new breakdancing routine. He’s gotten really into Tibetan monk throat-singing nowadays. The deep bellowing sounds fill up the hole in his soul he never knew he had. He’d try to sing along but unfortunately his twinkish vocals don’t go that low. “Tight, tight, tight, yo!”

Tyrus lustfully stares at Walt’s penile fly swatter and pulls a twenty out of his pocket. "BREATHE INTO HIS  **DICK** ,” Tyrus yells at Jesse. He leans over the railing holding a twenty in his hand like he was ready to shove it into Jesse’s hazmat stripper getup. Though he was also maybe thirty feet away, and standing in the mezzanine, so instead of shoving the twenty into some undies, he just let it slip from his hands and drift to the ground. It falls elegantly into a vat of yellow piss-looking liquid, used to cook the addictive chemical  _ methamphetamine _ . (This is dangerous, do not attempt this at home.)

“WHAT,” Jesse screams in response, not hearing him well over the throat-singing. He does another slick breakdancing move as he releases a barrel of phenylacetic acid onto the floor. It rolls into the wall with a dull  _ thunk _ .

"I said you look dummy thick," Tyrus replies dryly.

Walt eyes him skeptically. “What, you mean this… waifish twink? Dummy thick? If anything he is dummy and I am thick. Fifty-fifty partners. If he ever becomes dummy thick, I’ll be left with nothing.”

Jesse pulls out an earbud. “Oh, like what you leave your wife?” He twerks rhythmically to the Tibetan throat-singing. “Yeah, she gets nothing from you but she’s happy anyway. Because I let her have a piece of this.” Jesse crudely grabs his crotch, and his very average sized penis. But he doesn’t let it out of his underwear because the show is not rated R, and AMC really had to censor shit so that Netflix would accept it. All hail Netflix. But screw cable TV for not letting us see Jesse’s average sized penis. (Aaron Paul, do us a favor and release your nudes.)

Not that there’s much to let out of his underwear. But while his penis is no beast, Jesse is. A hype-beast, to be specific. Overcompensation is Jesse's middle name. He was assigned Jesse Bruce “Overcompensation” Pinkman at birth. But if Jesse overcompensated, Walter “HeartWell” White overcompensated more. Because while Walter’s heart was, in fact, well, his lungs had cancer.

It was a real pity his lungs had cancer. But thankfully, as long as Walter kept making meth, the cancer went away. Making meth was like chemotherapy to him. The fumes made him go bald and he vomits a lot if he doesn’t wear his mask. He hasn’t been doing that a lot lately, but then again he hasn’t been going to chemo, so he needs the fresh stink of toxic chemical waste to soothe him. Maybe next he will set his car on fire and sniff the wonderful aroma of exhaust smoke and gasoline.

Every time Walt does something that he justifies as being for the sake of his family, his cancer shrinks just a little bit. The day he set his son's brand new car on fire instead of returning it to the dealership, the cancer shrank three sizes. Three sizes… that's how much you're guaranteed to drop if you go on Weight Watchers. Setting that car on fire was like giving his cancer a sexy new beach bod. Now all his cancer needs is a posse of chicks, unlimited martinis, and a couple of faux feather boas and it can become a daddy pimp.

Skyler, his other partner, had suggested he get rid of his lungs entirely. After all, it is the 21st century. Walter had considered this. He had enough money to pay for the procedure, and the fact that he would be lungless would definitely add to his street cred. How many lungless meth cooks do you know? Exactly. Because nobody has the balls to do it, unlike Walter White, who has many.

Jesse eyes the vat of piss-coloured liquid greedily. He hasn’t drank in three days. He should be dead, but after having survived Walter White for so long, he was nigh on invincible. His body could survive everything from meth and murderous drug cartels to the nuclear radiation unleashed in the Chernobyl disaster… so drinking a little toxic piss sludge won't harm him at all. Besides, it will satisfy his deep rooted piss kink. Before he could quench his thirst, however, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Mr. White had begun to strip again. Jesse had learned to expect this.

“The temperature, Jesse… Heat.” He waves his pale arms around. “The heat in this room.” He scoffs. This was Gus’s fault.

"Like what kind of heat, yo?" Jesse asks. "Like Fahrenheit?"

"No, Jesse, not Fahrenheit. We measure exclusively on the cycle of the moon, my wife's libido and the Planck's constant, remember?" Walt shakes his head, disappointed. "Of course you wouldn't, you junkie imbecile."

Jesse throws a beaker at Walt. "Yeah? What do you know about your wife's libido?"

Walt throws his hands in the air furiously, his face turning red. "Nothing! But I know more than you because I'm college educated!"

"Yeah," Jesse snarls. "Well, college is a classist institution, bitch!"

"Oh," Walt says mockingly. "Am I supposed to believe you're a communist now? That you know what 'classism' means?"

Jesse places his hands on his hips, groping his own ass, exposed by the lack of material there on his hazmat suit. "It means that some people have more class than others, asshole." This made perfect sense to Jesse. When you go to college, you take more classes than most people.

Walt looks down his nose at Jesse, picking up some chemicals to cook meth. "Fuckin' pinko," he mutters.

"My name's Pinkman. Get it right, Mr. White."


End file.
